Athletic Shorts (2 page)

As he stands staring at the tuxedo, his brain grinding out camouflage intelligence, I read his mind.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” I say. “I can handle this.”

“You’ve had this girl on your mind a long time,” he
says sadly. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

I say, “I’m not going to be hurt, Dad,” thinking: Please don’t make me take care of you, too.

Alexander, my stepdad, walks through the bedroom door, places a hand on Dad’s shoulder, and guides him out of the room. He reappears in seconds. “Your father’s a pain in the butt sometimes, huh,” he says, “worrying about things you wouldn’t even think about.”

I say, “Yeah, he is. Only this time
I’m
thinking of them. How am I going to get through this night without looking like Moby Melon with a stick in his butt?”

Alexander nods and looks at my near-naked carcass. He is like an arrow, sleek and angular, the antithesis of my father. It is as if minor gods were given exactly enough clay to make two human forms but divided it up in a remedial math class. Alexander is also sensible—though somewhat obscure—where my father is a romantic. “Superman’s not brave,” he says.

I look up. “What?”

“Superman. He’s not brave.”

“I’ll send him a card.”

Alexander smiles. “You don’t understand. Superman’s not brave. He’s smart. He’s handsome. He’s even decent. But he’s not brave.”

I look at the tux, spread beside me, waiting. “Alexander, have I ever said it’s hard to follow you sometimes?”

“He’s indestructible,” Alexander says. “You can’t be brave when you’re indestructible. It’s guys like you and me that are brave, Angus. Guys who are different and can be crushed—and know it—but go out there anyway.”

I looked at the tux. “I guess he wouldn’t wear such an outrageous suit if he knew he looked like a blue and red Oldsmobile in it, would he?”

Alexander put his hand on my shoulder. “The tux looks fine, Angus.” He left.

So now I stand at the door to the gym. The temperature is near zero, but I wear no coat because once inside, I want to stay cool as long as possible, to reduce the risk of the dike-bursting perspiration that has become my trademark. No pun intended. Melissa—along with almost everyone, I would guess—is inside, waiting to be crowned Queen of the Winter Ball before suffering the humiliation of being jerked across the dance floor by an escort who should have “
GOODYEAR
” tattooed the length of both sides. My fear is nearly paralyzing, to tell the truth, but I’ve faced down this mon
ster before—though, admittedly, he gets more fierce each time—and I’ll face him down again. When he beats me, I’m done.

Heads turn as I move through the door. I simulate drying my butt with a towel, hoping for a casual twist-and-shout move. Your king is here. Rejoice. Marsha Stanwick stands behind the ticket table, and I casually hand her mine, eyes straight ahead on the band, walking lightly on the balls of my feet, like Raymond Burr through a field of dog poop sundaes. I pause to let my eyes adjust, hoping to God an empty table will appear, allowing me to drop out of the collective line of sight. Miraculously one does, and I squat, eyes still glued to the band, looking for all the world like the rock and roll critic from the
Trib
. If my fans are watching, they’re seeing a man who
cares
about music. I lightly tap my fingers to what I perceive to be the beat, blowing my cover to smithereens. I see Melissa on the dance floor with her boyfriend—a real jerk in my book, Rick Sanford—and my heart bursts against the walls of my chest, like in
Alien
. I order it back. A sophomore server leaves a glass of punch on the table, and I sip it slowly through the next song, after which the lead singer announces that the “royal couple” and their court are due behind the stage curtain in five minutes.

Tributaries of perspiration join at my rib cage to form a raging torrent of sweat rushing toward my shoes as I silently hyperventilate, listening for my grandfather’s voice, telling me to screw ’em, telling me once again I can do anything I want. I want my moment.

I rise to head for the stage and look up to see Melissa on her boyfriend’s arm, coming toward me through the crowd parting on the dance floor. Sanford wears that cocky look, the one I remember from football, the one he wore continually until the day I wiped it off his face on the sideline during our first full-pad scrimmage. Golden Rick Sanford—Rick Running Back—danced his famous jig around end and turned upfield, thought he could juke me with a couple of cheap high school hip fakes, not realizing that
this
blimp was equipped with tracking radar. It took him almost fifteen seconds to get his wind back. Hacked him off big time, me being so fat and ugly. But now the look is back; we’re in his element. He’s country club; I’m country, a part of his crowd on the field only.

As they approach, I panic. The king has no clothes. I want to run. What am I doing here? What was I thinking of? Suddenly I’d give up my moment in a heartbeat for the right to disappear. What a fool, even to think…

They stand before me. “Angus, my man,” Rick slurs,
and I realize it’s not a change of underwear he’s carrying in that paper bag. “I’m turning this lovely thing over to you for a while. Give her a chance to make a comparison. You know, be a bit more humble.”

Melissa drops his arm and smiles. She says, “Hi. Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s drunk. And even without that, he’s rude.”

I smile and nod, any words far, far from my throat.

Melissa says, “Why don’t we go on up?” and she takes my arm, leaving Rick’s to hang limply at his side.

“Yeah,” he says, squinting down at the paper sack in his hand, “why don’t you go on up? You go right on up behind that curtain with my girl, snowball king.”

Melissa drops my arm and grips his elbow. “Shut up,” she whispers between her clenched teeth. “I’m warning you, Rick. Shut up.”

Rick tears his arm away. “Enjoy yourself,” he says to me, ignoring her. “Your campaign cost me a lot of money, probably close to two bucks a pound.” He looks me up and down as couples at the nearest tables turn to stare. The heat of humiliation floods up through my collar, and I fear the worst will follow. I fear I’ll cry. If I do, Rick’s in danger because it’s a Bethunian law that rage follows my tears as surely as baby chicks trail after their mama. “Don’t you go be puttin’ your puffy
meat hooks on my girl,” he says, and starts to poke me in the chest; but I look at his finger, and he thinks better.

Melissa takes my arm again and says, “Let’s go.”

We move two steps toward the stage, and Rick says, loud, “Got your rubber gloves, honey?”

I turn, feeling Melissa’s urgent tug, pulling me toward the stage.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask quietly, knowing full well what he means by that.

“I wasn’t talking to you, bigfoot,” Rick says, looking past me to his girl. “I’m asking if my sweetie’s got her rubber gloves.”

Melissa says, “I hate you, Rick. I really do.”

Rick ignores her. “Bigfoot comes from a high-risk home,” he says. “Best wear your rubber gloves, honey, in case he has a cut.”

In that instant I sweep his feet with mine, and he lands hard on the floor. He moves to get up, but I’m over him, crowding. When he tries to push himself up, I kick his hands out, following his next movements like a cow dog, mirroring him perfectly, trapping him there on the floor. No chaperon is in view, so it isn’t totally out of hand yet. When he sees he can’t rise, I kneel, sweat pouring off my forehead like rain. Softly, very
softly, I say, “You may not like how my parents live. But they’ve been together since 1971—monogamous as the day is long. That’s a low-risk group, Rick. The only person at high risk right now is you.”

He looks into my eyes, and he knows I mean it, knows I’m past caring about my embarrassment. “Okay, man,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, “just having a little fun.”

I’m apologizing to Melissa all the way up the backstage stairs, but she’s not having any. “You should have stomped on his throat,” she says, and I involuntarily visualize Alex Immergluck clutching at his bleeding mouth in the freezing cold next to the car bumper. “If you ever get another chance, I’ll pay you money.”

At the side door to the stage I say, “Speaking of embarrassment, there’s something you need to know.”

She waits.

“I can’t dance.”

Melissa smiles. “Not everyone’s Nureyev,” she says. “We’ll survive.”

I say, “Yeah, well, not everyone’s Quasimodo either. I didn’t say I can’t dance
well
. I said I can’t dance. Good people have been badly hurt trying to dance with me.”

We’re near the risers on the stage now, and our “court,” made up of juniors and sophomores, stands
below the spot at the top where we are to be crowned. Melissa hushes me as we receive instructions from the senior class adviser. There will be trumpeting, the crowning by last year’s royalty, followed by a slow march down the portable steps to the gym floor to begin the royal dance.

We take our places. The darkness of the stage and the silence are excruciating. “What did he mean, my campaign cost him a lot of money?” I whisper.

“Never mind.”

I snort a laugh and say, “I can take it.”

“He’s rich, and he’s rude,” she says. “I’m embarrassed I’m with him.” She pauses, and slides her arm in mine. “I’m
not
with him. It was supposed to be a lesson for me….”

The curtains part as the trumpets blare.

I gaze out into the spotlights, smiling like a giant “Have a Nice Day” grape. The introduction of last year’s king and queen begins, and they move toward us from stage left and right to relinquish their crowns to us. It all would be unbelievably ridiculous even if they weren’t crowning King Angus the Fat. Without moving her lips, Melissa says, “I picked a slow song. We don’t have to move much. Dance close to me. When you feel me lean, you lean. Whatever you do, don’t listen to the
music. It’ll just mess you up. Trust me. My brother’s like you. Just follow.”

She grips my arm as the royal march starts and leads me down the risers to the portable steps leading to the dance floor. I have surrendered. If I am to survive this, it will be through the will of Melissa Lefevre.

Somehow I remember to hand her the traditional single long-stemmed red rose, and she takes it in her hand, smiling, then pulls me tight. She says, “Shadow me.”

A part of me stays to concentrate, but another part goes to heaven. In my wildest dreams I could never have imagined Melissa Lefevre being
nice
to me in my moment, would never have
dared
imagine holding her tight without feeling pushy and ugly and
way
out of line. She whispers, “Relax,” into my ear, and I follow mechanically through a song I’d never heard, not that it would make a difference. When I’m finally relaxed enough and know I’m going to live, the words to “Limelight” filter into my head, and I realize I’m
in
it. Like the songwriter, I fear it yet am drawn to it like a shark to a dangling toe.

“Alan Parsons,” she whispers in my ear. “Good lyrics. I love ’em. And I hate ’em. That’s what makes a song
good
.”

I wouldn’t know a good song from a hot rock; I’m
just hoping it’s a
long
song. Feeling greedy now, I want my moment to last.

“Angus?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever get tired of who you are?”

I pull back a second, but it’s like Lois Lane releasing Superman’s hand twenty thousand feet in the air. She falls. I pull close again. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

I feel her smile. “Yeah,” she says, “I thought so. I know it’s not the same, but it’s not always so great looking the way I do, either. I pay, too.”

She’s right. I think it’s not the same.

“Want to know something about me?” she asks, and I think: I’d like to know
anything
about you.

I say, “Sure.”

“I’m bulemic. Do you know what that is?”

I smile. “I’m a fat kid with faggot parents who’s been in therapy on and off for eighteen years,” I say. “Yes, I know what that is. It means when you eat too much, you chuck it up so you don’t turn out to look like me.”

“Close enough for discussion purposes. Don’t worry, I’m in therapy for it,” she says, noticing my concern. “A
lot
of pretty girls are.”

“Actually,” I say, “I even tried it once, but when I stuck my finger down my throat, I was still hungry and I almost ate my arm.”

Melissa laughs and holds me tighter. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told except for the people in my therapy group; I just wanted you to know things aren’t always as they appear. Would you do me a favor?”

“If it doesn’t involve more than giving up my life,” I say, feeling wonderful because Melissa isn’t a goddess anymore and because that doesn’t change a thing about the way I feel about her.

“Would you leave with me?”

My foot clomps onto her delicate toe.

“Concentrate,” she says. Then: “Would you?”

“You mean leave this dance? Leave this dance with you?”

I feel her nod.

I consider. “At least I don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight. I’m a pumpkin already.”

“I like how you stood up for your family. It must be hard. Defending them all the time, I mean.”

“Compared to me, a boy named Sue had it made,” I say.

The music ends; all dancers stop and clap politely. “I want to dance one more,” Melissa says. “A fast one.”

“I’ll wait over by the table.”

“No. I want to dance it with you.”

“You don’t understand,” I say. “When I dance to the beat of rock and roll, decent folks across this great land quake in their boots.”

She holds my hand tightly. “Listen. Do what you did when you wouldn’t let Rick up. Don’t listen to the music; just follow me the way you followed him.”

I try to protest; but the band breaks into “Bad Moon Rising,” and the dance floor erupts. Melissa pushes me back gently, and out of panic, I zero in, locking on her hips as I would a running back’s. I back away as she comes at me, mirroring her every move, top to bottom. She cuts to the sideline, and I meet her, dancing upfield nose to nose. As the band heats up, I remain locked in; though her steps become more and more intricate, she cannot shake me. A crowd gathers, and I’m trapped inside a cheering circle, actually performing the unheard of: I’m Angus Bethune, Fat Man Extraordinaire, dancing in the limelight with Melissa Lefevre, stepping outside the oppressive prison of my body to fly to the beat of Creedence Clearwater Revival.